


Forecast.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, I bet Qui-Gon taught Obi-Wan how to make the toys he left for Luke on Shmi's grave, Introspection, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Post Jedi Apprentice #3: The Hidden Past, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: He wonders briefly how he must seem to the boy. A stern, unsmiling master, so tall that Obi-Wan must tilt his head backwards in order to look up at him.  He can see himself through his student’s eyes, stiffly formal and coolly taciturn, and he finds himself wincing away from the image.  He has long thought of himself as a dour, uninteresting man. He finds contentment in solitude, sitting quietly in banks of warm sunlight, nursing one cup of tea and then another.  Hardly an ideal companion for a child, he thinks guiltily.All his padawan has known of him is grimness and indifference.  He would like to change that. But he does not know how to begin.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 29
Kudos: 295





	Forecast.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to Tohje, who introduced me to the inspiration for this fic, the song "Stray Italian Greyhound" by Vienna Teng, and to LuvEwan, for taking the time to beta this!! <3<3<3

Qui-Gon Jinn raises the cowl of his robes as he steps off the shuttle into the misting rain he has become accustomed to in his short time on this world. The Jararacans call it _Moonwater,_ the fine sprinkling of rain that falls uninterrupted for most of the planetary year, until the heavier summer rains begin to pour. 

At his side, his padawan follows his example and raises his hood, and together they step out into the mist. 

Their experience of Jararaca has been confined to the agricultural centers several kilometers away, and the small, bustling city that has grown up haphazardly around the planet’s primary spaceport. The city contains marketplaces with cramped alleys of merchant shops and vendors, establishments for travelers to rest, cheap food sold out of stalls and tapcafes. Jararaca’s great river, the Ararac, ends in a descent of falls and cascades several kilometers away. Qui-Gon hears the faint roaring of the falls even from this distance, a background him against the noise of traffic and conversations. Overflow from the canals gushes down the sides of the streets, creating pools of water in the uneven ground. 

But Obi-Wan is as curious about this place as he has been towards every new destination. Qui-Gon can see how the boy is soaking in the sights and sounds of the city, though he does not stray away from his master’s side. 

Qui-Gon leaves up the hood of his robe as he walks, but he notices how Obi-Wan pushes his hood back to look up at the sky. 

“Do you suppose the rains will come before we leave?” Obi-Wan asks. Gusts of warm winds cause a slight sheen of moonwater to cover his exposed face and hair. 

Qui-Gon glances up at the overcast sky, the watery sun dim behind clouds and ringed with pale halos of light, an optical illusion from the constant moisture in the air. 

“I shouldn’t think so,” he answers. “I can’t imagine why you are so eager to be rained on, padawan.”

“Well, it’s different,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve never seen weather like this on Coruscant - I rather like it.”

Qui-Gon does not quite know what to say to this. “You’ll get used to it, I imagine.”

“There’s supposed to be a festival when it rains,” Obi-Wan says. “I’d like to see that.”

“We are not here to sightsee,” Qui-Gon reminds him. Qui-Gon can feel the boy’s sudden spike of anxiety, that his master should find fault with him. An overcorrection, he realizes too late. “I did not mean that we cannot enjoy ourselves,” he says carefully. “Only that it is not our purpose here. We cannot linger.”

Obi-Wan drops his chin. “Of course.” 

Qui-Gon allows himself to lapse into silence, and the boy follows his example. 

They push through the crowded open-air spaceport, moving out of the way for cargo loaders and the freighter mechanics that call remarks at each other from across the hangars. Their transport is a small cruiser bound directly for the mid-rim destination of their next mission with no other stops. But there are flashing signs by the loading dock when they reach the hangar. _Flight delayed._

Qui-Gon stops a passing Jararacan mechanic with his hand. “What is the delay?” he asks. 

“Minor navigation system malfunction,” the mechanic informs him. His pale blue gills flutter rapidly as he speaks. “Shouldn’t take more than a cycle to fix, I warrant. It’ll be worth your while to wait, if you can hold out. Won’t be another ship making clear for Tiranji this quarter. But if you’re looking to stay on the move, there’s a passenger transport bound for Takodana that’ll make a stop at your destination.”

He is about to agree that staying on the move is the wisest course. Then he glances down at his padawan. Though the expression on Obi-Wan’s face is stoic, there are dark circles under his eyes. The boy is tired, Qui-Gon realizes abruptly, and no doubt hungry. There has not been much time to stop and rest over the course of the mission. 

Qui-Gon can feel Obi-Wan looking at him. “We can wait,” he says, more for his padawan’s benefit than the mechanic’s. 

He places his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulders and guides him through the port and back into the city. He remembers there being a traveler’s hostel quite near, and decides to try there first. He leaves Obi-Wan outside the building to wait, and then steps inside the to inquire about renting a room for the night.

He is talking with the proprietor when he glances out the wide transperisteel windows of the foyer and notices that the boy has left his post outside the hostel. He cranes his neck as he listens to keep Obi-Wan in his sight. But the boy does not go far, venturing only to the edge of a nearby canal to watch the water rushing past, leaning over to dip his hand in the water. 

He finds himself thinking of Phindar, not so very long ago, and what he had felt when he thought that his padawan’s memories were lost to him. How in that moment, it had become clear to him what he valued in his apprentice. His curiosity, his diligence in his duties. More than that - his willingness to learn. A student who wants to learn, he had realized, is worth a thousand of one who does not. He had made so many mistakes on Phindar. He will keep Obi-Wan close, while they are here. 

His student glances through the window and notices his master’s gaze upon him. He must think that Qui-Gon’s look is disapproving, for he drops his chin and hurries back to the entry. 

“That will be fine,” he tells the proprietor, and pays for the room with a handful of su’car chips, the local currency. 

He goes outside to beckon Obi-Wan over. “We will stay here tonight, until our transport arrives.”

He can feel Obi-Wan looking up at him with a question in his eyes, trying to judge his master’s mood. He can tell the moment when Obi-Wan subsides, clearly deciding not to risk breaking the silence between them. This is not how it should be, he knows. My apprentice should feel like he can come to me with a question, with any problem. What does this mean for us? How do I change this? 

But as with so many things, he simply does not have an answer. 

\---

Their room is small and presumably clean, but the stained plastoid surfaces make him dubious. There is a standard-issue sleep couch in the room, and a repulsor cot pressed up against the wall, as well as a table and chair, and standard refresher and laundry facilities, plus a heating coil for warming up water or a meal. 

“Why don’t you go get us something to eat?” he suggests, for lack of any other idea. “Be mindful of your surroundings,” he reminds the boy, and Obi-Wan nods his assent. 

He counts out a handful of su’car chips into Obi-Wan’s hand, and Obi-Wan sets off with determination. The boy is far from reckless, and this is a safe planet. Still, Qui-Gon keeps his eye on him from the window until he reaches his destination, a food stall half a street down from the hostel. A master is meant to encourage growth and independence. And yet he finds himself wishing only to keep the boy safe. 

He watches as Obi-Wan waits for their food to be prepared, falling into conversation with a small crowd of the children who seem to live on the streets here, running underfoot and splashing along the edges of the canals. He notices that the mist is growing stronger, obscuring the surface of the window and turning Obi-Wan into a blurred dark-cloaked shape. Perhaps Obi-Wan will get his desire after all. He follows the small figure until the boy is at the entrance to the hostel.

Qui-Gon turns his head away from the window when Obi-Wan comes tumbling back inside with boxes of food. “What does the weather look like?” he asks.

Obi-Wan wipes the light sheen of moonwater off his face with the sleeve of his robe. “No rain yet,” he reports. He passes Qui-Gon a package wrapped in a thin strip of of weatherproof plastoid. “I found a vendor selling noodles,” he says. “It didn’t look too bad.” 

Obi-Wan has also brought him back things to look at that he finds curious: A broad green leaf and with an insect perched on top. “What do you suppose it is?” Obi-Wan asks.

“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon says. “You might look it up, when we return to Coruscant.”

“Oh,” says Obi-Wan. “I just thought you might know.”

There is not much space in their room. But Jedi are not strangers to uncomfortable situations. Obi-Wan sits on the floor with his back against the wall and opens his carton of noodles. Qui-Gon sits in the room’s single chair and checks his datapad as he eats his meal. 

He consumes his food absently, occupied in the datapad where he is reading previous mission reports on the planetary disputes that have disrupted the world they will visit in the coming days. This is his usual routine, as much as he has one: Finding nourishment when the Force provides it, resting when he has occasion, keeping himself occupied with diplomatic missives and headlines from the daily Senate reports when he has a quiet moment. 

But tonight Qui-Gon finds that he cannot concentrate on research. With a sigh he sets the datapad aside and rubs at his temples. The boy, he notices, is still sitting quietly on the floor, staring out the window at the gray, misted-over world outside. He wonders briefly how he must seem to the boy. A stern, unsmiling master, so tall that Obi-Wan must tilt his head backwards in order to look up at him. 

He can see himself through his student’s eyes, stiffly formal and coolly taciturn, and he finds himself wincing away from the image. He has long thought of himself as a dour, uninteresting man. He finds contentment in solitude, sitting quietly in banks of warm sunlight, nursing one cup of tea and then another. Hardly an ideal companion for a child, he thinks guiltily. 

All his padawan has known of him is grimness and indifference. He would like to change that. But he does not know how to begin. 

_I used to know how to talk to a child,_ Qui-Gon finds himself thinking, _I used to be at ease in this role._ But it is difficult to alter direction from the course he has already set. He does not know how to change his manner towards the boy. 

It is fine when they are actively working together on a mission. As long as events are unfolding, they fall together in the Force and manage a fair amount of teamwork. It is only here in these quiet moments when Qui-Gon feels so out of place with his new apprentice. Obi-Wan has tried to test the waters between them, asking questions, watching his master’s movements and imitating them, when it is Qui-Gon who should be adjusting to his student’s needs. 

“You do not have to be so quiet,” he says stiffly.

Obi-Wan glances over at him, startled. “I don’t want to disturb you. You’re working.”

“It’s not important,” he says. He waits. But Obi-Wan does not move. Qui-Gon tries not to sigh. “I suppose you are tired. We should rest while we can.”

He takes off his boots and turns down the covers on the sleep couch while Obi-Wan takes down the repulsor cot and adjusts it to hover just off the floor. The cot is narrow and the padding is thin. But his padawan does not complain. He tucks the disposable cover around the cot and pulls the thin adjustable blanket up to his shoulders. Obi-Wan is asleep before Qui-Gon gets settled, one arm hanging off the side of the cot. 

I did not work with him on anything today, he realizes. I should have done something with him - meditation, at least. How will he learn anything from me if I do not remember to teach him? 

But it is too late now. He turns off the glow panels and leans his head against the back of the sleep couch for a while, listening to his padawan’s quiet breathing on the other side of the room, and wondering again at the mysteries of the Force.

He wakes up before Obi-Wan; old habits, long ingrained in his nature, are hard to ignore. The transport will not be ready for hours, and their mission on Jararaca is long over. Still, he feels the need to be alert and awake. 

For now, it is a chance to rest, an opportunity Qui-Gon has come to appreciate in his years as a guardian of the peace - the rare moments after a mission when he might take the time to eat and be still, to reflect on lessons learned, to enjoy a rare moment of solitude. It is a relief not to rush, to have nothing on their agenda other than travel. 

For Qui-Gon, there is always something to work on; communiques to check and send, reports to write, research for the next mission, accommodations and itineraries to plan. Soon enough, when they return to Coruscant and the Temple, Obi-Wan will need to be re-enrolled in classes, and then he will have work of his own to accomplish in these quiet hours, readings and assignments, with practicums waiting whenever he is in-Temple. For now, their traveling days are a source of free time for the boy. 

It is clear when he wakes up that Obi-Wan does not know what to do with this free time. He does not have a datapad of his own - he was sent without Temple-issued property to the AgriCorps, under the assumption that he would be provided for there. Now he has only the clothes on his back, and a spare set, the training saber he left the Temple with, and nothing else. The boy does not seem bothered by his lack of possessions. That will be something else Qui-Gon must remember, when they are back in the Temple - Obi-Wan will need new clothes, and supplies. 

His apprentice has tidied their room and packed his own light rucksack, taken their trash to the incinerator. Now the boy looks out the window, watching the crowds on the streets below, the beings moving in currents, all obscured by the mist of moonwater. He is not a distracting figure. He has, Qui-Gon knows, taken great pains not to be. He sits still and does not speak, sensing perhaps his master’s preoccupation. 

Yet Qui-Gon cannot concentrate. He mentally shakes his head at himself, wondering at his own restlessness. His eye keeps returning to the slight figure on the other side of the room. He has a sudden flash of memory of himself at that age, arms and legs too long for his body, and the need to be on the move constantly. Obi-Wan is far from sedate, but contains himself well, far better than Qui-Gon has been able to do at any age. He has simply been so careful to keep himself still, and out of Qui-Gon’s way, that he simply had not noticed. He feels another twinge of guilt. 

“Come,” he says, and Obi-Wan glances up at him, surprised. “Let’s stretch our legs.” 

Obi-Wan rocks up to his feet. “Yes, master.” 

They leave the hostel and step out into the streets. The gray sky reflected in the still pools of water on the sides of the street. Qui-Gon watches his padawan’s fresh young face, glistened over with moonwater and bright with enjoyment, and it invokes further unexpected memories of himself, eager for play and exploration, how even the dullest spaceport had seemed novel and intriguing. And with those memories come other ones, unbidden; his master’s unsmiling face and a rebuke for his padawan’s foolishness.

He has forgotten what it is like to be young, he realizes, when every part of your existence is uncertain, from your next meal to your next chance for sleep to the approval of a sharp-tongued master, how this state of uncertainty can exhaust a small being. 

He allows Obi-Wan to guide his choice for a meal. They stand by the vendor’s stall and wait for their food to be prepared. 

Qui-Gon finds a bench to sit on, near a grove of the juma trees that grow up in every empty corner and behind the buildings and residences. Mist slowly begins to bead up on the water-repellant fabric of his cloak. 

The children that play in the streets toss sticks and leaves in the canals and watch them rush away with the water. Qui-Gon notices how his padawan goes up and speaks to them, how he is welcomed almost instantaneously. He watches Obi-Wan talking brightly to one of the young urchins, and he has another memory of his younger self, so lonely despite his master’s constant presence, finding a way to smile at anyone who would glance at him from his place at his master’s side, simply pleased to be noticed. 

The children take to Obi-Wan at once. Of course they do, he reflects. His is a light that shines for others. Qui-Gon finds himself both in admiration of and shrinking from his padawan’s open heart. The children fashion rafts from leaves and bark off the orange-barked juma trees , and the broad, rust-colored leaves from the jubal plants that grow in the shade of the trees. The children set their rafts in the shallow pools of water in the streets. 

Obi-Wan crouches with them, just as interested as they are. There is a value of play as an icebreaker, Qui-Gon remembers. 

“What are they doing?” he asks Obi-Wan when his padawan returns to his side.

“Checking for rain,” his padawan informs him. “It’s a tradition. You make the rafts, see, and place them in a pool, and if the rafts start to spin in place then the rains are coming soon. And if the rafts stay still, then there are still weeks to wait.”

The children are still crouching at the edge of the pool. Qui-Gon lifts his hand slightly. He can feel himself smiling at the way the children gasp and exclaim as their raft spins slowly in the water. 

“What’s the forecast?” he asks mildly.

His padawan looks at him askance. “The results were tampered with.”

The juma trees that grow all over the city in empty lots and along the edges of the canals catch his eye. They are diminutive trees, with broad leaves and a rough orange bark that feels away to reveal the smooth yellow and pale green striped wood underneath. The trees drop their skins of bark frequently. There are thick pieces of the crusty bark underneath the grove near his bench, along with fallen leaves and broken branches. 

He stands up from the bench and scouts among the grove of juma trees, an idea taking shape in his mind. He finds a thick piece of solid wood, a chunk carved from the interior of one of the older trees. There is something about the piece that makes him decide to keep it, and he places it in one of the pouches on his belt. Then he finds a fallen branch thick enough for his purposes, the length of his hand, and breaks off the thin shoots. 

He takes a knife from the pouch of his belt and after a while, he has fashioned a sort of hollowed-out boat out of the malleable wood. He does not look up, but he can feel the crowd of children beginning to form at his feet, and he dips his head further to hide a smile. The street children, with their drawn faces that look both old and young at the same time, are more suspicious of him than of his apprentice, but they gather around all the same to watch him work. 

When he is finished with the boat, he looks up into the sea of interested faces of the street children, their gills fluttering with interest. He is surprised to see his padawan in the crowd too, hanging back but just as interested as the rest. Feeling rather as though he has been caught at something he shouldn’t have been doing, Qui-Gon passes the boat to the youngling in front of him, and the children scatter, rushing back to the pools of water and their play. 

“How’d you do that?” Obi-Wan asks him.

“I learned when I was around your age. It’s a good way to make friends - street children can often tell you what’s going on in a city faster than any adult,” Qui-Gon explains. He adds, feeling oddly tentative, “Besides, it pleases them.”

Something flashes across Obi-Wan’s face, too quickly for him to comprehend. “Oh, I see,” he says. He has fallen back into the polite hesitance that marks nearly all of their conversations. Not wanting to intrude. Not wanting to presume. Qui-Gon feels another touch of guilt at that, how he can connect so easily with these strange street children, but can only hold himself back from the one he is responsible for.

It ought to be easier to connect with the boy, Qui-Gon knows, and with a flash of insight he thinks wryly that perhaps his own feelings are getting in the way, as they so often do. It is hard to connect with his padawan because of the way he thinks Obi-Wan must feel about him. He has already made so many mistakes. He does not wish to harm the boy further by making new ones, and he finds himself pulling back again and again. But keeping a distance between them the way he has has not helped, he can see. It leaves Obi-Wan feeling unsure, uncertain. He does not know what Qui-Gon expects out of him. 

Like many things, this is something Qui-Gon can perceive. As in many other cases, it is harder to fix a problem than to notice it.

He is afraid to lose the boy, afraid to show another side of himself, afraid that his distance is hurting Obi-Wan but unsure of what to do about it. A fine state of affairs, he thinks grimly. A master who does not know what to do with his student. 

He needs a different sort of teacher, Qui-Gon thinks, not for the first time. Someone who can be - well, kind. Not so stern and grim, someone who can draw the boy out. His aloofness deflates the boy so easily. No one should have that kind of power over another being, he thinks, and remembers a dark-haired boy, learner’s braid swinging merrily across his shoulder as he runs ahead of his laughing master. 

“Let’s go,” he tells Obi-Wan, and his padawan nods goodbye at the children.

\----

The signs by their cruiser now say _Flight canceled_. The same mechanic is still in the hangar, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. “Nothing I could do,” he declares to Qui-Gon’s resigned look. “It didn’t want to be fixed.” Qui-Gon only sighs. 

He checks the listed flight logs on the hangar terminals. There are several ships with flight plans logged for a mid-rim hyperspace route, with planned stops throughout the Great Gran Run. There is one vessel whose flight plan lists only a minor delay on Natalon for fuel and a planned layover on a space station along the Run, where they can no doubt disembark and find another transport that will take them to their destination. The vessel will leave in several hours. Qui-Gon is resigned to a delayed departure at this point. He books the flight, then turns to his padawan. 

“We should not have much more waiting to do,” Qui-Gon tells him. 

Obi-Wan cracks a grin. “Waiting is what Jedi do best.” 

\---

Qui-Gon leads them through the narrow paths of the spaceport strip. The moonwater grows stronger, more like a true rain. It whisks down the folds of their cloaks, and their hems drag through new patches of mud. He finds a stretch of empty land beside a canal, and something compels him to stop.

The silver-tipped gray grasses that grow along the canal here are the same ones that grow in clumps by the spaceport, and there are more of the little streams here, with pools forming in the pockets and dips between shallow hills. He finds a rock to lean against, and watches Obi-Wan.

His student wanders around the bit of land, looking into pools, climbing on the outcroppings of the native bluslate stone outcroppings, picking up stones and bits of leaves and grass. He does not run or flip or cavort, the way other children do; Jedi children are trained out of that behavior early on in their youth. Perhaps he might, if he thought himself alone, but Qui-Gon knows with a sudden certainty that Obi-Wan is still - well, performing is not quite the word, because it is not an act, but neither is he acting freely. Jedi children are used to having eyes on their performance at all times. He knows that Obi-Wan is conscious of his presence. They are not quite at ease with each other yet. 

He realizes with a start that as much as he is holding himself back from his student, Obi-Wan is holding back from him. The idea that they are equally uncomfortable with each other startles him. 

I’m not like this really, Qui-Gon wants to protest, to himself or to his padawan, he is not sure. I’m not as stern as you think I am.But that might not be quite true. He is afraid, perhaps, that this might be exactly who he is, now, a temporary change etched into permanence by long years of grief and solitude. 

But that cannot be true. The boy has already changed so much, with just his sudden, inexplicable presence bringing brightness to a place inside himself that Qui-Gon had not even realized was in shadow. What else might change for him, with Obi-Wan in his life? He is a teacher again, when he had said he would not, could not take on that role again. Perhaps the boy can change this too, with his light shining the way. New prospects, suddenly spiraling out from the emptiness of before, possibilities of growth and wonder, the potential for a new kind of relationship. 

He had thought that life would continue to pass him by. He had made his peace with that. Now he can see life beckoning just ahead of him, with the possibility of knighthood far in the distance, gleaming with the appeal of his own redemption. All the dizzying array of hopes that could come to pass, simply because of the presence of one young boy.

He thinks if anyone has the power to change the course of his life, it is this open-hearted child. Even if this is who he has become, perhaps he has time to change. 

Obi-Wan circles back around to him. “I feel like I ought to be doing something,” Obi-Wan tells him in a burst of confidence. “It feels strange to not have anything to do. Or no one to try to kill us.” 

He sounds cheerful despite his words, and Qui-Gon smiles at that. Despite all he has been through in the past few weeks, his padawan is still appreciative of his new role. A strength of character that Qui-Gon can only marvel at, and wish to relearn himself.

“I feel that way too, when a mission is over,” admits Qui-Gon. “It is hard to rest when you are used to being on the move.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” confesses Obi-Wan.

“Good,” says Qui-Gon, “that’s healthy for you. You can do as you like. Explore a bit.”

“Hmm.” He watches Obi-Wan stick his fingers in a pool of water to rinse them off, and pause to peel wet blades of grass off his boots. It’s all so new to him, Qui-Gon finds himself marveling. There is so much he has not seen. And Obi-Wan is eager for it all. He touches everything he sees, from the silver tips of the grasses to the heart-shaped leaves of the water lilies that grow on the surface of the pools. 

Obi-Wan steps closer to the canal and studies the tall reeds that grow in clumps by the water’s edge, and after a few moments, he bends down, interested in something beyond Qui-Gon’s range of vision. Children do not need to be told to be mindful of the living Force, he reflects. They already are. 

He moves closer, to see what has captured his student’s attention. “What sort of plant is that?” Obi-Wan wants to know.

“I don’t know,” he answers. “We’ll look it up once we board the ship.”

Obi-Wan grins up at him. It takes so little to make him happy, Qui-Gon thinks with wonder. Is that just - boys in general? Or is it simply Obi-Wan’s nature? It has been so long, he isn’t sure. How happy he can make the boy with such little effort. It is humbling, to hold that kind of power over another being. Even more so than the power of life and death, he thinks; the power of happiness. And its reverse - the power to bring pain to another. It is in Qui-Gon that the boy has placed all his hopes for his future, all his desire for affection and belonging, even though Qui-Gon had not welcomed him. Perhaps his student can see something in him that even a Jedi master cannot find in himself. 

There is something about this boy, he thinks again, but for the life of him he cannot explain what it is. Obi-Wan is different from Xanatos, from other students Qui-Gon has worked with. He is open to Qui-Gon in a degree that allows for him to soak up his teaching and instruction, but leaves him vulnerable to hurt. Obi-Wan does not protect his heart from his master. His apprentice is open to all the joy and wonder in the universe, all that the Force provides, and also all the pain. Qui-Gon aches for him, knowing what the galaxy will do to his heart. He is setting himself up for great disappointment, Qui-Gon had thought disapprovingly at first. Now he thinks Obi-Wan might be the braver of them both, to offer up his heart with no hesitation or fear. He deserves that courtesy of his master offering him the same. 

Qui-Gon reaches into his belt pouch and takes out the piece of wood he had picked up before and turns it around in his hands, thinking idly of the Jararacan child who had smiled so to receive the toy he had made, and how his padawan had watched his hands working with as much interest as the other children, and all at once he makes a decision. He removes his knife and begins to scrape its edge along the soft wood. 

He can feel his padawan’s eyes on him, and he allows himself a faint smile. “What are you making?” Obi-Wan asks curiously.

“I’m not sure yet,” he replies. 

He strips away the bark with his fingers while he watches Obi-Wan edge closer to his side, and when the piece of wood is smooth to the touch, he takes out the knife he keeps in his utility belt and begins to carve out chunks until it takes the rough outline of a starship. 

Qui-Gon pauses to examine what he has brought out in the wood. He scrapes away a bit of wood here and there until more details emerge: Engine thrusters, view ports, a loading dock. He wipes away the moonwater misting up on the wood.

Obi-Wan has drawn closer until he is sitting at Qui-Gon’s feet, watching him intently. “Is that the _Monument_?” he asks suddenly. 

Qui-Gon stops to look more closely at his creation. “I suppose it is,” he answers, rather surprised. He had not meant to recreate the ship that had brought them to Bandomeer. And yet the wood and his fingers have brought out details he had not thought he remembered. He had not realized that he remembered this ship so well. But he must have been thinking about it on and off ever since he had disembarked. 

“How did you learn to make things like that?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Trial and error,” he answers. “The way anyone learns anything.”

He works on the figurine for some time, carefully making sure that the silvers of wood and dust fall in a neat pile on the ground between his boots, until he feels ready to stop. He has forgotten how good it feels to make something with his hands, to create something. It is a meditation of sorts, he finds himself thinking, then he notices the way his apprentice is studying him. He stops his work, carefully sweeping the pile of dust and chips off his robes and tucking the knife back into the pouch on his belt.

“Are you finished?” Obi-Wan asks.

“For now,” he responds. He holds the figurine out for a better view, and his padawan examines the object carefully. “You forgot the way the hull is curved here,” Obi-Wan says suddenly. “Like a - almost like a pulsar skate.”

“I did forget,” Qui-Gon says. “You have a good memory.”

“I don’t think I’ll forget that ship any time soon.”

“No,” agrees Qui-Gon. “I don’t suppose you will.” Neither will he. It was so very strange, he had mused while he worked on the block of wood, how he had left the _Monument_ with a padawan and he had not even realized it at the time. Or had he? He had felt the Force call to him, and he had not listened to the small voice that had whispered to him then. 

“What else can you make?” Obi-Wan wants to know.

“Oh, simple things,” Qui-Gon tells him. “Animals, and different kinds of ships. Lothcats and banthas, little figures of people.” He can recall some of the toys he has made over the years, dolls made from the remnants of old cloaks and tunics, with faces painted with drops of ink; starships assembled out of bits of pipe and scrap metal. He has used whatever is at hand, from the dried rhygrass on Dantooine he had braided into dolls’ arms and legs to the simple wooden cart he had made for a child on Felucia. He tells Obi-Wan some of this, adding, “I like to remember what I have seen. This is a good way to remember. My hands keep the memories for me.” 

“Like a mnemonic device.”

“Indeed.” He hesitates before putting the model away. “Would you like to hold it?”

Obi-Wan pulls back slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Here,” he says, and places the figurine in Obi-Wan’s hands. Obi-Wan holds the model with great care, lightly tracing the scalloped edges of the ship, frowning in concentration. Qui-Gon notices the way his fingers slide over the glossy striped wood.

He looks up to meet Qui-Gon’s eyes at last. “It’s wonderful,” Obi-Wan says. He is smiling. There you are, Qui-Gon thinks, pleased. This is what he has had a secret hope for, to have Obi-Wan look like the child he might have been, if he was not a Jedi. 

Obi-Wan strokes the striped wood with a gentle fingertip. “Who is it for?” 

“I thought you might want it,” Qui-Gon says. “It is not finished. I thought perhaps you could.” He catches a glimpse of the look on Obi-Wan’s face and hastily adds, “Only if that’s something you’d like.”

“I’d like to learn,” Obi-Wan says in a rush. “If you would show me how. If you don’t mind.” 

He finds himself smiling. “That would be fine.”

Beginnings are difficult, he admits to himself as they head back towards the spaceport and their transport, and he tries to open himself to this feeling of newness, how strange it all is. To simply accept it as a momentary state of being. 

It shall not always be this way, he reminds himself. It is difficult only in the way unfavorable weather is uncertain. You do not know what to expect, or when it might end. Sooner than he thinks possible, perhaps, they will learn to know each other. He must allow himself to accept this impermanent state between them, perhaps even find a way to take pleasure from its transient nature. He can take each moment as it comes, and trusting that perhaps over time something greater than these individual moments will grow between them. 

They are almost at the open-air hangar where their transport waits when Obi-Wan stops suddenly and tilts his head back. 

“It’s raining,” he says delightedly, for once every inch the child that he ought to be, stretching out a hand from underneath the shelter of the loading platform. 

The sunlight is dimming rapidly as heavy black clouds pass overhead, and then all at once the sky opens up, a torrential deluge of warm rain. The Jararacans are spilling out of the stores and buildings to gather in the downpour, laughing and shouting to each other and holding their hands up to the sky. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this!” Obi-Wan has to shout to be heard above the rain. 

“Neither have I,” Qui-Gon shouts back. Rain he has seen before, on many worlds, but never like this. The streets are already beginning to flood, the water in the canals rising fast.

He hovers uncertainly at the edge of the landing platform. He knows what is expected of him as a master, knows his role to set the example and tone in this relationship. He ought to insist that they continue towards their ship, but something stops him: Qui-Gon is thinking of his own master again, and the sharpness in his voice as he called his padawan back to his side.

Then he makes up his mind. 

“Come on,” he shouts, and steps out into the rain. The downpour instantly soaks through his robes. His only set of garments, part of him reflects with chagrin. And yet he cannot bring himself to mind. Obi-Wan is looking at him in astonishment. “Don’t you want to see?”

"We'll miss our flight," Obi-Wan protests over the noise of rain on the loading dock's durasteel roof. The Jararacans are walking up and down the streets, shaking hands and calling out greetings to each other, bellowing to be heard over the sound of water. 

"There'll be another one," Qui-Gon reassures him. He lifts his hood and lets the rain pelt his face and drench his hair. What must he look like to the boy now, he wonders briefly, with his robes hanging off him in limp wet folds and rain dripping down his beard. He can hardly be intimidating in this state, he supposes. A group of Jararacan men with big booming voices pause to laugh goodnaturedly at Qui-Gon. 

"You're all wet," Obi-Wan objects. He appears as though he can't make up his mind over who has gone mad, himself or his master. 

Qui-Gon tucks his hands inside his soaked sleeves. "Aren't you coming?" he calls out. "You're missing it."

"Oh, all right," says Obi-Wan. But he is grinning at Qui-Gon, a conspiratorial look of shared mischief, quite new. Obi-Wan has never looked at him as though his master is someone he could laugh with before. "I'm coming," Obi-Wan calls back, pulling back his hood, and then Qui-Gon's padawan follows him out into the rain.

  
  



End file.
